


No Stars

by GaleIsSomething



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 2018 is the year of no shame suck it, Drabble, HELL YEA, Human Gamzee, Humanstuck, M/M, Sober Gamzee Makara, writing homestuck in our lord 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13465035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaleIsSomething/pseuds/GaleIsSomething
Summary: “Guess the swings are just the questioning life at ass o-clock seats, huh?” the guy said. Gamzee stared at him from the tops of his eyes, refusing to move his head from it’s downward tilt. “Soul searching in a child’s swing is something I can get behind."





	No Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Homestuck in our lord 2018 mm. Not only that, but it's damn rarepair bc rarepair hell is just where I reside. I've decided that 2018 is the year of no shame/cringe in terms of fandom so suck it.
> 
> Warning for the resident clown boy Gamzee bc boy has mental issues. I tried to represent it as best as possible, especially with Gamzee's beyond violent tendencies.

Being in a with fighting family is hard enough. Being in a family with a father, who could be louder than he had any right to be, and a brother, who would scream right back, was maybe worse. Gamzee learned to fall asleep as they argued at the top of their lungs. That was before Kurloz took his vow of silence in solidarity with his newly deaf girlfriend. Now it was just his father shouting at a silent Kurloz and occasionally a high Gamzee. 

Tonight was another one of those. Except, Gamzee wasn’t high--blazed, baked, whatever. He was out of fucking weed and sober like he used to be before he found the miracle drugs. For the first time in months? Years? He didn’t know anymore. The messiahs were speaking again, real loud, and telling him to do things. Cut his brother’s tongue out, they told him, he wasn’t using it. They screamed and yelled that he was worthless and just grab that big ass butcher knife in the kitchen and get the job over with. Kurloz knew what was happening, and made sure to gently remind him in the mornings to take his plethora of medicines. 

Gamzee listened to him only because Kurloz was the only one not making noise. What he wouldn’t do for some complete fucking silence. Kurloz was always patient with him in the best way, and knew when to take no shit from Gamzee about why he couldn’t take his medicine. When he was high off his ass and somehow thinking more rationally, Gamzee realized Kurloz was a blessing in skeleton themed makeup and the weird vibrant short shorts he wears over his abnormally tight pants. Even as Gamzee growled, fidgeted, and lashed out, Kurloz helped him paint on his makeup every morning, and made sure he ate and took his meds. Gamzee really couldn’t ask for a better brother, but the messiahs wouldn’t listen to him. In their minds, everyone was worthless and deserved to die except those who listened the motherfucking mirthful messiahs. Therapist after therapist told him not to listen to them, so it was a major mental conflict going on. 

Disregarding the blessing that was Kurloz, Gamzee was fighting the urge to pull his hair out at the follicle. His dad was shouting again, at someone on the phone he thought. Kurloz was out at his girlfriend’s house, probably being the perfect boyfriend that he could be. Gamzee already knew the girl’s parents loved him. The vow of silence when she lost her hearing was a big plus in their eyes. Gamzee found thoughts like that worked to an extent, to quiet the messiahs up, but it didn’t stop them. His dad wouldn’t give him money for weed and he didn’t know any dealers in the town anyway. Moving sucked.

The shouting was getting louder and louder. Inside his head and out. Gamzee grabbed the small bag packed with a change of clothes and some snack foods that Kurloz helped him set up. He shoved his medication in there just in case. His dad was in his office, he concluded, so he could get out without getting stopped. Gamzee left a note on his door saying he went for a walk, and crept down the stairs. Big houses always felt bigger when you were sneaking through them.

Outside was cold, late night air biting at his skin. He didn’t have his paint on, he remembered, and decided he didn’t want to go back inside. A few cars were driving by here and there, zipping through the darkness and passing through pools of light from the street lights. Gamzee walked down the stairs and out to the sidewalk. He was still on edge, but maybe a little less. Less fidgety and more just tensed muscles under his skin. 

If he remembered right--if he could really think through the messiahs’ screaming--there was a playground nearby. Gamzee could find a swing or something and try to eat. He skipped dinner, he realized and his stomach growled.

Time blurred between starting down the street to the playground, but Gamzee ended up there somehow. It was abandoned for the pitch-dark late hours of the night, when people like him were out and about. Dangerous people. He was dangerous, the messiahs said, and shouldn’t be on the kids’ sacred ground--where childhoods were made. They didn’t need a sociopath disgracing their great kingdom.

Gamzee stepped over the low stone wall around the main area. He walked across the wood chips, trying to focus on the brief car noises he’d hear now and again, or the flashes of music from people blaring it at that hour of the night. The wood chips under his feet made slight noise, but it was really quiet. There was the buzzing of a neon sign he couldn’t be bothered placing. He got to the swings and sat down on one. His long legs were bent almost comically for him to sit down. He gently pushed himself back and forth, rocking slowly on the swing. It was calming, like Kurloz did sometimes to him. He stared at the sky and tried to tune out the messiahs--it wouldn’t work.

There were no stars. Why weren’t there stars? There were always supposed to be fucking stars. Lighting up the sky like a shitty piece of cardboard with tiny holes punched through. Another car, another blaring song. It was heavy rap this time, offensive and rebellious like the kinds people he’d be forced to go to school with would be playing. They’d raised their hands like the fucking preachers of the revolution from the perch of privilege they already sat on, acting like they were doing something because they said the words “fuck” and “police” in the same sentence. Gamzee did that shit daily mentally without being offensive. Word order was important, and those pricks would never seem to get it.

Footsteps snapped him out of it. Gamzee blinked suddenly and looked up without moving his head. Another person was approaching, stepping over the low wall and walking towards the swings. Gamzee was ready to throw a punch and maybe break a bone or two. The messiahs screamed at him to lunge at the stranger before they could do anything. 

“Guess the swings are just the questioning life at ass o-clock seats, huh?” the guy said. Gamzee stared at him from the tops of his eyes, refusing to move his head from it’s downward tilt. “Soul searching in a child’s swing is something I can get behind--” he sat in the swing next to Gamzee and this time Gamzee didn’t bother looking over “--Oh shit man. That a backpack? You running from home? About to hitch a ride on some railroad cars and go on some sick journey of self discovery? Fucking… going off into the sunset or some shit. Majestic as you escape your problems of the mortal world and ascend to some higher tier--”

_ Rip his throat out. He’s making fun of you. _

“--Becoming a magical girl to save the universe from some weird ass dude in a cape. Returning and facing your problems like some sort of hero and kicking their ass--”

_ He’s making fun of you! Kill him. Kill him so he shuts up. Rip his vocal cords out-- _

“Do you ever motherfucking shut up?” Gamzee hissed. The dude stopped immediately and Gamzee really looked over at him for the first time. Asshole had shades on outside. Gamzee narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell do you think I want to talk to you?”

“‘Cause you’re sitting out here at aforementioned ass-o’clock, looking like you’re pondering existence,” the guy said. He gestured to the side as he spun the swing he was in so the chains wrapped around each other. “Name’s Dave. I come out here to escape my shithead of a Bro. What about you mystery dude?” 

“... why would I tell you shit?” Gamzee growled. The messiahs weren’t saying not to trust him, but the violence wasn’t any better. 

“So I can learn about those badass scars you got all over your face situation,” Dave said casually, picking his feet up so the swing spun back the other way. “And all the shit said on the swings, stays on the swings, my dude. It’s the dude code.”

Gamzee glared at him before remembering again he was without his usual makeup. He hesitated for a while, and then eventually decided with a loud mental screw it--loud enough to drown the messiahs out.

“Gamzee. And… dad’s loud when he’s pissed,” Gamzee muttered, turning his head forward again. 

“Guardians are like that,” Dave said, coming to a stop. “Assholes but you can’t hate them. They feed you and put a roof over your head or whatever. Getting away is just better than arguing or fighting back. Bro doesn’t get loud, but he gets pretty violent. Got my own share of cool ass scars.”

“You like that shit?” Gamzee asked. 

“Hell yeah, dude,” Dave said, smiling slightly. “It’s like the marks of a cool kid. Which I totally am. Have you see the shades.”

“Yeah they look like motherfucking pieces of shit,” Gamzee replied, grinning. He realized that he shouldn’t be grinning like that, and he’d been told it was unnerving. 

Dave… didn’t seemed fazed though. He gasped in mock insult, and then started with some long winded rant about the pure awesomeness of his shades and why certified cool kids wear them. Gamzee usually hated noise when sober, but Dave wasn’t loud. He kept his tone mostly neutral volume-wise, and just kept talking. He didn’t speak over the messiahs. He drowned them out spewing bullshit like a decorative fountain. 

Gamzee lost track of time. Dave kept his head busy with random shit. Rant mock arguments about dumb things and dumb rhymes. Dave had “sick beats” so he claimed and pulled out his phone, demanding Gamzee’s number so he could show him the real kickass music he apparently made. Gamzee didn’t know why he agreed. He needed a distraction, he guessed. Music seemed good enough.

Eventually, Dave checked the time and said he should probably head back before his Bro came looking for his “fine ass.” Gamzee would deny looking. Dave promised to send him some of his sick beats and rhymes ASAP, and Gamzee just nodded and snorted as he walked away backwards. 

Gamzee realized he should probably head home, too, so he got up a few minutes after Dave was gone. Getting back to the house seemed to take less time, even as he remembered most of it. Cars were still going by, and it seemed like nothing changed outside of his bubble. The house was quiet and mostly dark, a few dim lights on so he could get through the house. Gamzee snuck back into the house and back up into his room.

The note on his door was replaced with another, in his dad’s sharp, neat handwriting. “ _Sorry for the volume, get some sleep Gamzee._ ” Gamzee took the note off the door as he went back inside his room. He closed the door behind him and locked it. The note and bag was thrown on his desk. He fell onto the bed and curled up in his blankets, haphazardly putting his phone on the end table. He was warmer than earlier. The messiahs were quieter, or seemed quieter. Maybe his medicines were kicking in finally, maybe he just needed air.

Messiahs kept speaking, but Gamzee ignored them enough to get some sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> idk if this is gonna continue. i've got another fic thing in the works for them that's longer with a more coherent plot but idk


End file.
